Heredity
by tessiete
Summary: Vulcan children don't laugh. Amanda Grayson knew this, so why does the absence of childish glee disturb her so? A brief exploration of Spock's childhood, and the things that make him his mother's son.


**Title: **Heredity

**Author: **tessiete

**Rating:** PG

**Disclaimer:** Yeah...Star Trek has not been, and never shall be mine. Just borrowing to play with gently.

**A/N: **This is my first fic, which I was really prompted to write after seeing the movie...multiple times, and finding myself incredibly intrigued by Amanda Grayson, of all people. I just find Spock and by extension the dynamic of the family and people who created him, extremely fascinating. I hope you enjoy this little bite of exploration! As always, feedback is HUGELY appreciated! Thank you!

Vulcan children don't laugh.

This fact is made abundantly clear to Amanda Grayson the first time she encounters them while touring a youth learning complex. On Earth, she'd been a teacher. Sarek, wishing to please her, takes her to Vulcan's most renowned educational institute for its pre-adolescent civilians. His earnestness, however thoroughly veiled, is endearing, and she is keen to find something that rings with familiarity on this unforgiving planet that is to be her new home. He has explained to her about the Vulcan Science Academy which she has equated to the universities and colleges of Earth complete with fields of focus, senior dissertations, and tenure. And if the occasional social gathering of the Academy is not quite like the raucous affairs she remembers from her youth, then it merely serves as a gentle reminder of the pure alienism of the culture she is now a part of. But the sombre, unresponsive faces of even the youngest children as they brush by her at the end of a session shock her into a new awareness. She smiles at Sarek because he must expect it, and asks to go home. Logically, she knows that serenity and emotional repression is their way of life – that her husband's people do feel – but this knowledge does nothing to stem the heartbreak she experiences. She is alone, and he doesn't understand why she cries herself to sleep that night.

When her son is born, smiling comes to her as easily as it ever had. Her joy is all-consuming and overwhelming. Sarek remains as stern as ever, but a new softness has pervaded his features, and sometimes when she catches his eye as he holds their son, she could swear they crinkle with silent laughter. She spends hours gazing at the fine, upswept brows that are ever-furrowed in profound contemplation of this strange new world. Again and again her fingers seek out the gently steepled apex of impossibly small ears, and stroke back wisps of sleek black hair. He's the very picture of Vulcan identity, and she couldn't be more proud. But she can't help the tug of regret she feels knot in her stomach when she can't find herself reflected in the flawless features of this child.

The first time her boy smiles Amanda's joy echoes around the vaulted stone hallways of their house. Even Sarek's assurances that the tiny, perfect grin is merely the result of a build up of gas can't diminish the feeling of relief that threatens to drown her. That such an undignified state can exist in a Vulcan being, even one as young as the creature that rarely leaves the cradle of her arms, affirms his humanity. He is still her son. She must exist in him somewhere.

Spock grows up and away from her. Whispers creep through doorways and around corners, and Amanda hears the bigoted slurs that she'd thought long buried in Earth history. She is disappointed to realise that she's been unconscionably naïve, but she's lived here for years, and has learned some of the control so valued by the people. Besides, the prejudices voiced in private have no place in the public circles she is exposed to through her husband's position as one of Vulcan's most respected patriarchs. Their son is not so lucky. Sarek tries his best to shield his delicate, far too human boy. He takes Spock in hand, and moulds him, protecting him the only way he knows how. He trains him to be more Vulcan than those who torture him. Emotion is denied entirely. It is illogical, and only causes harm. The infant who once would grasp her fingers as she dangled them before his eyes, and cling to her ankles as she gardened, is replaced with a sullen stranger who no longer permits her to sweep a hand across his forehead to smooth out bangs, or hold him during the worst sand fires. She knows that with Vulcans, touch carries far greater implications than with humans, but she can't believe that the sheltering embrace of a mother is ever unwelcome. Amanda is at once reminded of the school she toured when she first arrived, and begins to think she's losing Spock entirely. She can't entirely justify her fears, and cannot voice them to Sarek who would see only the illogical concern stemming from the human maternal instinct. Certainly she couldn't be more proud of her little boy. He returns from classes with more knowledge every day, he becomes fiercely just and moral with instruction and his father's example, and he masters every traditional Vulcan practice thrown at him, but this distant, alien child cannot be hers. She watches as Spock draws in on himself, and over time she becomes convinced that there is nothing of her humanity in her boy. She shouldn't be disappointed. After all, she married a Vulcan, and loves this world with every fibre of her being, but she feels more alone at this moment than any other, and it's not enough.

Then, one day, her son comes home with a split lip. Barely visible rivulets of blood darken the front of his robes. His fists are bruised and his left eye is swollen and green. She glances at her husband who follows at Spock's back. Sarek shakes his head briefly, giving nothing else away, and moves into a room beyond. Spock can't meet her eyes, and she can't help but sweep her boy, this precious child, into an embrace. He doesn't resist, but instead unfolds in her arms. Suddenly she realises she's been incredibly selfish. The same 'deficiency' that she had been so careful to shield him from has been the very one she's projected on him herself, only reversed. She's been so caught up in what her child has meant for her, and what he's missing that she's forgotten what she should mean for her child, and what she can provide for him. She is overcome with a wave of determination to fix things, and infuses her embrace with as much love, concern, and devotion that she possibly can, knowing her son will inevitably feel some part of it. The small frame in her arm sniffles and wipes his nose on the sleeve of her robe. Vulcan children don't cry.

But Spock does.


End file.
